


Midnight in Paris

by Aneiria



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco cheats on Astoria, F/M, Infidelity, Inspired by film, Magical Paris, Midnight in Paris - Freeform, Original Characters - Freeform, Smut, Stuck in the past, Time Travel, Unspeakable Hermione Granger, Writer Draco Malfoy, but end game dramione, lots of character ancestors, romcom, very brief drastoria, working together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:35:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26842975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aneiria/pseuds/Aneiria
Summary: ‘Granger,’ Draco replied, casting a quick wandless charm to clean his own clothes. ‘Want to watch the magic you’re casting next time? Whatever spell that was, it nearly took both of us out.’Hermione’s face settled into a frown of confusion. ‘I thought that was you,’ she said, hesitantly. ‘I wasn’t using magic.’They both looked away at the same time, taking in their surroundings.‘Where are we?’ Hermione wondered out loud, as she spun on the spot and took in the sights.It was the wrong question, really.
Relationships: Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 37
Kudos: 326
Collections: Dramione RomCom Fest





	Midnight in Paris

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [DramioneRomComFest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/DramioneRomComFest) collection. 



> Huge thanks to [Debo](https://crazyconglasses.tumblr.com/) for the beta, and thanks NuclearNik and QuinTalon for running this fest!
> 
> This fic is based on the film 'Midnight in Paris' and some dialogue lines have been taken from the film.
> 
> I have played around with the idea of the famous cultural elite of the film being ancestors of some of the HP characters we know and love, I hope you enjoy!

Paris was always most beautiful by midnight.

The dark blue sky, the faint smattering of stars, the golden glow of the street lamps, the muffled quietness broken only by the occasional reveller, the crisp sweetness to the air: in Draco Malfoy’s opinion, it was always worth taking a walk in the city in the evening. 

‘Honestly, Draco, is this _entirely_ necessary?’ 

Draco tried to control the flare of anger that raced through his veins at the whining voice of Astoria Greengrass. She stumbled along next to him on ridiculously high heels, and hadn’t stopped complaining since they left the restaurant. Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy had of course Apparated back to the Parisian manor, but Draco had managed to convince Astoria to walk with him. 

A splash of cold wetness hit Draco on the forehead, and he looked up in delight. The only thing better than Paris at midnight was Paris at midnight in the rain. Sure enough, another drop fell, then another, and within moments it was raining merrily onto the cobblestones, dampening Draco’s perfectly coiffed white-blond hair and making Astoria shriek indignantly.

‘And now it’s raining! This is ridiculous, Draco. Apparate me home at once.’ 

Astoria came to a stubborn halt, and as Draco turned to look at her she crossed her arms over her chest. Her long, chestnut coloured hair was limp from the wet, although her black-mascara’d eyes hadn’t run at all. She flashed him an angry look, and he sighed inside.

It hadn’t always been like this, between him and Astoria. At the start of their relationship, she had been the gracious, elegant epitome of pureblood society. She’d deferred to Draco on decisions, allowed him to woo her, became fast friends with Narcissa, and had Lucius wrapped around her little finger. 

By the time he proposed to her, earlier that year, that started to change.

‘I want to walk,’ he tried to protest, feeble even to his own ears. 

Astoria sighed loudly. ‘You do that, Draco,’ she said shortly. ‘I’m going to Apparate home like a sensible witch would have done at the start, and get a decent night’s sleep. Don’t forget we’re visiting Versailles with your parents tomorrow.’ 

Before Draco could respond, Astoria drew her wand and Disapparated, leaving Draco standing alone in the rain. 

Things did not get any better in Versailles. 

‘Draco, dear, when will you join your father at the business?’ Narcissa said as they wandered slowly around the palace grounds. Astoria and Lucius were a few steps ahead, talking animatedly about the wizard architect that designed the famous Hall of Mirrors. 

‘Please, mother,’ Draco tried. ‘I’ve told you and father already. I don’t want to join the business. I want to try my hand at writing first.’

Narcissa pursed her lips in the way that meant she was severely displeased, and from ahead of them Astoria turned on her heels and laughed, a silvery peel that would be beautiful if it was used more for warmth and less for cruelty.

‘Oh yes,’ Astoria taunted. ‘Draco Malfoy, the world-famous novelist. Can you imagine?’ She laughed again as she turned to Lucius, and he smiled indulgently at Astoria before turning his head just far enough back to flash Draco a dangerous look.

‘Indeed,’ he agreed. ‘He would do well to remember where the money comes from to keep him in the life he is accustomed to.’

‘Exactly,’ Astoria said. ‘Working at the Malfoy business is the natural thing for him to do, not run around pretending to be a writer. I mean, darling,’ she said now, turning back to Draco. ‘No offence, but you won’t even let anyone read your so-called novel. You’re only going to carry on getting rejection letters if you never get feedback on your writing.’

With that Astoria turned back and looped her arm through his father’s, and they switched back to their conversation about the palace as if they hadn’t just sliced two holes into Draco’s heart.

‘You’ll never be rich as a writer, dear,’ Narcissa said gently as she pulled him towards her, linking her own arm through his. ‘And you know your father will never let you inherit if you do not take on the business. Malfoys do not do well without money.’

Draco didn’t reply, and his mother seemed to take his silence for acquiescence as she sighed happily and looked around at the buildings. 

No one seemed to notice Draco was more quiet than usual. 

Later that day, back in Place Cachée in Paris, Draco walked alone, hands in his pockets, kicking at the cobblestones as he went. 

Astoria and his parents had once again Apparated straight home after their dinner at the most expensive restaurant in wizarding Paris, washed down with vintage red wine from the Malfoy estate. 

Astoria and Narcissa spent most of the dinner talking over the wedding plans, whereas Lucius had lectured Draco on the business and what he expected him to pick up when they were back in Britain the following week. 

Draco picked at his steak salad, not even finishing his first glass of wine. He managed to escape afterwards, claiming a need to walk under the stars. With sighs of exasperation, they left him to his whims, his father muttering something along the lines of it being the last chance Draco would have for daydreaming for a while. 

The street was mainly empty now as it neared midnight, only the low yellow glow of the magical lamps lighting the darkness. 

Draco lifted his head as he noticed a fast-walking witch approach, intending to give her a polite _bonsoir_ before continuing on with his lonely walk. He was only able to register a disturbingly familiar halo of unruly curls before the whole world seemed to tilt on its axis and he stumbled and fell into her. She staggered as well, and together they fell to the cobblestones. 

Draco felt a flash of practiced irritation as he and none other than Hermione Granger lay tangled around each other on the floor. She squeaked with similar indignation as she untangled herself. Draco pushed himself back to his feet and Hermione picked herself up, ignoring the reluctant hand Draco held out to help her up.

‘Malfoy,’ she greeted him shortly, brushing herself down. She was wearing a cream silk shirt tucked into a dark blue pencil skirt, her long shapely legs ending in a pair of patent leather heels. A dark blue cloak hung around her shoulders, and an expensive-looking leather handbag dangled from her arm, and Draco was momentarily stunned by how elegant she looked. Sure, it had been nearly ten years since he’d last seen her properly, at the end of their eighth year at Hogwarts, but the gangly, awkward adolescent girl he knew was completely gone. Her scowl was as familiar as ever, however, and her big brown eyes flashed in annoyance at him.

‘Granger,’ he replied, casting a quick wandless charm to clean his own clothes. ‘Want to watch the magic you’re casting next time? Whatever spell that was, it nearly took both of us out.’ 

Hermione’s face settled into a frown of confusion. ‘I thought that was you,’ she said, hesitantly. ‘I wasn’t using magic.’

They both looked away at the same time, taking in their surroundings.

‘Where are we?’ Hermione wondered out loud, as she spun on the spot and took in the sights. 

It was the wrong question, really. 

They were clearly still in Paris; the Eiffel Tower in the distance, the same cobbled streets under their feet, the shop front signs all around them in French. But it was as if a glamour had been brought down over the wizarding quarter. Everything was slightly different, the shopfronts older looking, the advertisements out of date, the fashion on the wizards in the distance decidedly vintage. Draco slowly turned back to Hermione.

‘I think the more pressing question, Granger, is _when_ are we.’

Hermione looked at him in surprise, and he nodded towards the old-fashioned horse and carriage clatter by. 

‘Even for wizards, that’s pretty outdated,’ he said, with a grim smile. 

‘Oh, Merlin,’ Hermione whispered, moving back to the place they’d fallen. 

She drew her wand, and Draco cast a Notice-Me-Not charm around them. He watched as Hermione tried a few spells to remove enchantments and reveal secrets and old magic, but to their mutual frustration none of them showed anything. Still he stood by silently and watched, as she tried one more spell.

‘ _Tempus fugit_.’

For a moment, nothing. 

And then, a sparkle.

Only faint, a golden trace in the air. 

Hermione lowered her wand, her eyes widening as she realised something. 

‘Malfoy,’ she said as she turned back to him. He watched her warily, not speaking. ‘I think we slipped through a time portal. You’re right. We’re still in Paris, we’re just in the past.’

‘That’s all well and good, Granger, but how do we get home?’ Draco asked, and Hermione shook her head helplessly. 

‘I don’t know. The portal isn’t here anymore, only a trace of the magic where it existed.’ Hermione turned around again, desperately, as Draco started to pace up and down. 

‘What the fuck do you mean you don’t know?’ He said now, cursing under his breath. ‘You’re the bloody brain box, Granger, you must know _something_!’

‘I didn’t plan this, Malfoy! I had a perfectly nice evening planned curled up in bed with Crookshanks, drinking tea and reading a book!’ 

‘Crookshanks?’ Draco replied in confusion. He couldn’t remember anyone at Hogwarts named Crookshanks. Was Granger dating a Muggle? She waved her hand at him as if to bat away the question, and instead glanced around them.

‘We should try one of these bars,’ Hermione said uneasily, looking from one brightly-lit front to another. They advertised absinthe, and live music, and dancing, and Hermione looked very unsure about all of them. ‘We need to find out what year we’re in, and to try and get help. We’re still in the wizarding quarter after all, and I’m sure it’s been in the same location for centuries.’

‘I thought the first rule of time travel was not to let anyone else see you?’ Draco asked as he glanced furtively around. Hermione’s uneasiness was catching. 

She shrugged unhappily.

‘With intentional time travel, yes,’ she said now. ‘At least, that’s what we think. If you make a purposeful decision to go back, you have to be incredibly careful about who you speak to and what you do. But in cases of accidental time travel, in theory it’s already happened, so we’re probably safe enough no matter what we do. Not that we can be certain about that,’ she added. ‘Time _is_ a rather tricky thing to study.’

Draco sighed and bit his tongue. For better or worse, he and Granger were stuck in this situation together. It wouldn’t help to be snippy with her, even if it would make him feel momentarily better. He nodded towards the nearest bar, the signs outside advertising a swing band and cheap red wine by the carafe. 

‘Shall we, then?’ He said, offering Granger his arm. She threw him a distrustful look, and he tutted and grabbed her hand, sliding it through his arm and turning them towards the bar.

‘I propose a truce, Granger,’ Draco said as they walked, and he could almost _hear_ her eyes rolling. ‘Until we get back to our own time at least. We’re in this together and we stand a much higher chance getting back if we work together.’

‘Fine, Malfoy,’ Hermione said, her voice tight. ‘Truce.’ 

‘Before we go in,’ Draco said as they hovered outside the door, ‘we should probably catch up on what we’re both doing. At least pretend we’re some kind of friends, you know? Visiting from London, maybe.’

‘Fine,’ Hermione replied grumpily, and Draco bit his lip to stop from retorting. As if _he_ were any more delighted about this situation than she was! 

‘Okay, so what does the wizarding world’s golden girl do now?’ He asked instead. 

‘I’m an Unspeakable,’ she said in a hushed voice. ‘Trained with the Ministry and joined the French ministry three years ago.’ Draco raised a questioning eyebrow at her and she sighed. ‘It was just a bit much, being in London. Being recognised all the time. I wanted a bit of peace and quiet, you know?’

Draco just nodded. He certainly knew how that felt. Feeling her eyes resting expectantly on his, he cleared his throat.

‘I’m a writer,’ he said. ‘Well, I want to be a writer. But in a week’s time I’ll just be another Malfoy working the family business.’ He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, and to her credit Granger didn’t push the matter. She just nodded and tightened her hold on his arm. 

‘Right then,’ she said, bravely. ‘Shall we head in?’

The inside of the bar was glorious.

Draco looked around in awe. Darkened and glamorous, the witches all wearing short flapper dresses and elegantly coiffed hair, the men wearing sharp three-piece suits that put even Draco’s to shame. A jazz band played on a raised dais at the front of the bar, the dulcet tones of the singer dancing across the room as he sung. A number of young men and women crowded around the band, dancing: the Charleston, Draco recognised. The woman at the bar caught his eye across the room, a perfectly arched eyebrow raised at him in invitation. Her lips, painted a dark, dangerous red, curled into a smile and she tossed her long, chestnut hair back. Draco squeezed Hermione’s hand and nodded towards the bar.

‘Let’s get a drink,’ he suggested, calling out loudly over the music, and Hermione nodded in agreement, letting him lead them across the room. 

Draco had a sneaking suspicion he knew which decade they’d come back to. He smiled at the woman behind the bar and she leaned across the bar, ignoring Hermione completely and locking eyes with Draco instead.

‘What’ll it be, handsome?’ She asked in French, as Hermione huffed indignantly from his side. 

‘Two glasses of your best firewhisky,’ he replied, already pulling out a handful of French Bezants to pay with.

‘Coming right up.’

Draco took the opportunity to look around the bar, and caught sight of a sheet of white parchment lying discarded further up. Casting a quick _Accio_ , it flew into his hands, and he unfolded the evening edition of _Le Monde Magique_. His breath caught as he saw the date and he passed it to Hermione. She took it from him with shaking hands.

‘1929?’ She said with a horrified intake of breath. 

She was overthinking again, Draco could see from the frown between her eyes. Granger was always overthinking. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her well and truly switch off during their time at Hogwarts together. 

She worried her lower lip between her teeth and Draco couldn’t help staring. For a brief, fleeting moment he wanted to sweep her into his arms and kiss her lips instead, wondering what it would take to switch off that enormous brain of hers, to make her mind go blank and her body limp.

Two glasses of firewhisky were pushed under his nose, interrupting his train of thought. He looked up into a pair of dark, sultry, strangely familiar eyes. 

‘I’m Heloise Greengrass, by the way,’ the woman said in English as Draco handed her the necessary Bezant before picking up his glass. 

_Ah_ , thought Draco. Of course. Astoria’s great-aunt spent a decade of her life living and working in Paris. 

‘Draco,’ he replied, purposefully aloof. ‘And this is Hermione.’

Heloise gave a cool nod to Hermione, already taking a desperate sip of firewhisky, and turned back to Draco, reaching out to trail her fingers along his forearm. 

‘Pleasure to meet you, Draco. You just let me know if you find yourself in need of some… _alternative_ company tonight,’ Heloise said with a lascivious wink. 

Draco’s lip started to curl into a sneer, but Hermione was already grabbing hold of his arm and pulling him away from the bar, throwing a dirty look over her shoulder at Astoria’s great-aunt. 

‘Unbelievable,’ Hermione was muttering to herself, still looking behind them. ‘The 1920s are as bad as the present day.’ 

Draco looked up just in time to physically collide with someone for the second time that evening. 

Blinded by fury, Hermione had walked them straight into another couple. Luckily this time no one ended on the floor, and they all ricocheted off each other harmlessly, looking up in surprise. 

It was a couple about the same age as Draco and Hermione, a man and woman. The man was handsome enough, tall and fair, with kind eyes and a charming smile, despite them nearly knocking him over. 

The woman was incredible. As tall as he was, her hair silvery blonde and her eyes almost purple. Her skin had an ethereal luminosity to it, but her smile was utterly genuine and down to earth. Draco felt himself sway slightly on the spot, and he found himself taking an unconscious step towards her, stopping only when he felt Hermione’s grip on him tighten even more. She looked at him with furious eyes.

‘Really?’ She mouthed, and Draco shook himself and looked back up at the other couple, the daze finally lifting.

‘So sorry,’ Draco started to apologise, but the man laughed kindly and waved it off. 

‘Not at all, ol’ sport,’ he smiled. ‘I suspect we’ve all had a little too much to drink tonight!’ He added as the beautiful woman laughed in agreement.

‘I’m Scott, by the way,’ he offered his hand to Draco, who shook it, and then took Hermione’s hand to kiss her knuckles. ‘Scott Zabini. And this is my wife, Zelda.’ 

Draco took the woman’s proffered hand, kissing it as Scott had done with Hermione.

‘Enchantee,’ he said, her eyes twinkling at what he hoped wasn’t an appalling French accent. He’d been fluent his whole life, after all, but was sure his accent was terrible compared to the one that this exquisite creature was sure to have. ‘I’m Draco, this is Hermione. We’re from - Wait a minute.’ He looked up sharply, and both the couple and Hermione looked at him. ‘Scott and Zelda _Zabini_?’ Draco repeated, casting Hermione an incredulous look. 

‘Zelda Delacour, as was,’ Zelda explained, her voice, as suspected, laced with a divine French accent. 

Hermione gave a gasp of understanding, and Draco raised a questioning eyebrow.

‘Fleur Delacour’s grandmother was a Veela,’ Hermione explained in a low voice as Scott turned away to flag down a bartender for more Champagne. 

‘I always knew Blaise had some Veela blood somewhere in his family tree, the bastard,’ Draco added.

Scott turned back to them as the bartender hurried off for more drinks, and Draco introduced himself and Hermione as good friends visiting from London. Zelda raised one of her perfect eyebrows at that, her violet eyes sparkling knowingly. 

‘Just friends, eh?’ she smiled, accepting a flute of champagne from Scott. ‘I’m sure many _friends_ visit Paris, the city of love, together.’ 

She raised her glass in a toast as Hermione shifted awkwardly next to Draco. He just gave her a bland smile, hoping to put her off, and Scott handed both Draco and Hermione a glass of champagne too. Zelda had turned away, looking around the bar, and her eyes lit up as she spotted something - or someone - across the floor.

‘Ernest is here! We must go and say hello,’ she said to Scott excitedly. He let her loop her arm around his and she turned back to Draco and Hermione. ‘Darlings, come and meet Ernest!’ 

They followed her across the floor, Draco letting his hand hover above Hermione’s lower back, guiding her through the crowds of drinkers and the swirling dancers. They reached a table in a darkened corner, and a blond-haired man sat alone nursing a firewhisky. 

Hermione gave Draco a sudden, sharp nudge to the ribs with her elbow. 

‘ _Ouch_ , Granger, what-?’ he started, and she jerked her head towards the man. Draco’s brow furrowed in confusion, and the next moment Zelda swooped down on the man, kissing him on the cheek and waving Hermione and Draco forward. 

‘Draco, Hermione, meet Mister Ernest Malfoy.’

Ernest _Malfoy_?

Draco couldn’t hide his shock as the wizard got to his feet, grumbling as he did, and reached out to shake Hermione’s hand. He’d read everything by Ernest Malfoy, of course, he was one of the most famous writers in the wizarding world, after all. But never had he imagined the man who shared his surname could have been an actual relation. Draco thought surely even his family would want to lay claim to a writer as famous as Ernest Malfoy, even if he didn’t work the family business. He shook himself as Hermione introduced herself. 

‘Hermione Granger,’ she smiled, and Ernest grimaced in acknowledgement before reaching out for Draco’s hand.

‘Draco - Black,’ Draco said hastily, throwing Hermione a warning glance that was entirely unnecessary. No need for the awkward questions an unknown relation would cause. Hermione gave him a look that suggested he would owe her an explanation later, but for now - thankfully - she went along with his ruse. 

‘Mister Malfoy,’ Draco said, his eyes flickering over Ernest’s silvery-platinum hair, so similar to his own. ‘I’ve - I’ve read all your books, I think you’re brilliant-’

Draco cursed himself as Hermione threw him an incredulous look and Ernest gave an overly-familiar smirk that Draco had seen reflected in the mirror countless times before. 

‘You have good taste then, boy,’ Ernest said, raising his tumbler in a mock salute before downing his firewhisky in one go, hissing at the burn as he swallowed. He looked at them both impatiently as they stood there, and waved irritably at the empty chairs around him. ‘Well, you might as well sit down while you’re here.’

‘Oh - thank you, sir,’ Draco said and Ernest scoffed and raised his hand to the barman, who pulled down the bottle of fire whisky and started pouring a new drink. 

‘It’s Ernest, boy, no need for this formality nonsense. So tell me, what brings you two lovebirds to Paris?’ He reached up as his fresh firewhisky levitated over to him from the bar.

‘Oh, we’re not toge-’

‘I’m actually a writer too,’ Draco interrupted Hermione before she could finish her sentence, ignoring the flash of irritability she shot him. He didn’t want to think too hard on why, but he felt they might just survive a little better if people here thought they were a couple. ‘And Hermione here works for the French ministry. _Don’t_ you, darling?’ He reached cautiously for Hermione’s hand, and she bristled slightly but turned a slightly-too-bright smile at Ernest.

‘That’s right, I do,’ she said, and Draco supposed neither of them were technically lying. 

‘Good to see bright young things working in the slow machinations of government,’ Ernest said before turning back to Draco. ‘And you say you’re a writer, boy? What are you writing?’

Draco took a deep breath. He was talking to Ernest Malfoy, one of the greatest wizarding novelists of all time. 

‘I’ve actually just finished a first draft of my novel,’ he said, feeling uncharacteristically nervous. ‘But it’s probably terrible, I mean compared to the things you write…’

Ernest shook his head with an angry energy to him that Draco was beginning to suspect was a permanent fixture for him. 

’No subject is terrible if the story is true, if the prose is clean and honest, and if it affirms courage and grace under pressure.’

Draco sat in silence as he absorbed Ernest’s words, and from his side Hermione shifted in her seat, leaning forward slightly.

‘That’s lovely,’ she breathed. ‘I completely agree.’

Ernest gave her a reluctantly admirable look. ‘Then you both have good taste,’ he said wryly, and downed his second glass of firewhisky.

‘This is going to sound crazy,’ Draco said, ‘but would you maybe read my manuscript? I’d love some feedback on it, to see how I’m doing and what I need to work on…’

He trailed off as Ernest started shaking his head, his heart sinking slightly. He felt a comforting squeeze of his hand, and to his surprise realised Granger was still holding his hand. He made no move to take his hand away, though, and held his breath as Ernest started speaking. 

‘You don’t want another writer’s opinion, boy. If it’s bad, I’ll hate it, because I hate bad writing. And if it’s good, I’ll be envious and hate it all the more.’

It made sense, Draco supposed. He nodded reluctantly, unable to completely suppress the disappointment he felt. Ernest raised an eyebrow and his hand for a third firewhisky. 

‘But, I will show it to Gertrude Parkinson.’ 

Draco felt his disappointment fade and excitement rise once again. ‘Gertrude Parkinson?’ He repeated, stupidly. ’You’ll show my manuscript to Gertrude Parkinson?’ 

Ernest nodded and waved his hand as if to say it wasn’t a great thing he was doing, but Draco knew better. From his side, her hand still in his - and Draco tried to avoid the fact that her hand felt comfortable in his, like it belonged there - Hermione stirred and asked Draco in a low voice: ‘Who is Gertrude Parkinson?’

‘Only one of the foremost writers of her age,’ Draco whispered back to her. ‘As well as a critic and art collector. To have her read my manuscript…’ he trailed off and Ernest looked at him expectantly. 

‘Have you got a copy on you?’ Ernest asked, and Draco drew his wand and a tiny box from his pocket and with a quick _Engorgio_ charmed it back to its original size. A nondescript brown cardboard parchment box on the outside, on the inside it held Draco’s heart and soul. He passed it now to Ernest, reverently, and Ernest took it and added it to his own stack of parchment.

‘I’ll pass it on to Gertrude this evening,’ Ernest said now. ‘Where are you both staying? In case she wants to get in touch?’

Draco gave Hermione a quick glance. They hadn’t even had a chance to think this far ahead, after all. Luckily Zelda Zabini reappeared and stepped in to save them.

‘Why, our little lovebirds must stay with myself and Scott at our chateau!’ She exclaimed in a very decisive nature. Hermione still tried, bravely, to protest against the generosity, but Zelda waved her head and her hand as if rejecting a glass of corked wine. ’Nonsense, mes petits chéris, you absolutely must stay with us! As long as you like! Isn’t that right, Scott?’ Zelda turned to her husband as he approached and slid a fresh glass of firewhisky across the table to Ernest, who drank it like a man dying of thirst. 

‘Oh absolutely, Draco, ol’ sport,’ Scott said to Draco with a beaming, genuine smile. ‘You and Hermione are more than welcome to stay with us.’

‘Well, it’s settled then,’ Zelda said triumphantly, as Ernest slammed down his empty tumbler and stood up, Draco’s manuscript tucked under his arm.

‘Excellent. In that case I will get this to Gertrude, and let her know to call for you at the Zabinis’. And now, if you’ll all excuse me, I must be off. Mainly because I am bored.’

And with that, Ernest Malfoy stumbled away into the night.

* * *

The Zabinis decided to leave the bar soon afterwards, taking hold of Draco and Hermione and Side-Along Apparating them to their charming chateau in the French countryside. Their house was modest but elegant, red-bricked and ivy-covered, and Draco noticed a small but packed library as Scott and Zelda led them to the spare bedroom, and from her sharp intake of breath as they passed the open door he was certain Granger had noticed it too.

‘Say, don’t you two have luggage?’ Scott asked now as they walked them up the staircase towards the bedrooms. Draco’s mind went blank for a moment but luckily Hermione was ahead of him. She gave the pocket of her cloak a pat.

‘Just need to _Engorgio_ it when we get settled,’ she said brightly, and Scott smiled and nodded.

‘Here you go, darlings,’ Zelda said now, waving towards a closed wooden door. ‘I’m sure you’ll find it to your liking,’ she added with a twinkle to her luminous violet eyes. ‘You have an en-suite, fresh towels, fresh bed-linens. We’ll take breakfast at nine, and in the meantime if you need anything at all, call for Dédé, our house-elf.’

‘Thank you both so much,’ Draco said, shaking Scott’s hand as he held it out. ‘We really appreciate your hospitality.’

‘Bonsoir et doux rêves, bébés,’ Zelda said with a dazzling smile, and then the Zabinis were gone, headed to their own bedroom. 

Draco opened the door and waved Hermione through.

‘After you, Granger,’ he said, starting to feel weary. It had been a long enough day regardless of the unexpected time travel. 

For a moment he wondered what Astoria was thinking, whether she’d even noticed he hadn’t returned yet. 

A second later he realised he didn’t really care. 

‘ _Oh_ ,’ Hermione’s muttered word interrupted his musings and Draco mentally shook himself and walked into the room. Plenty of time to worry about Astoria and his parents tomorrow. He came up short when he saw what Hermione had reacted to.

A beautiful mahogany and blue-curtained four-poster bed stood pride of place in the centre of the guest bedroom. It was enormous and comfortable looking, but it was also the only bed in the room. Draco looked around in despair, his eyes settling on the matching blue velvet chaise longue against one mullioned window. He sighed unhappily. He knew he’d have to do the gentlemanly thing and offer Granger the bed, but he was not looking forward to cramping his tall frame onto that thing all night. 

‘It’s okay, Malfoy,’ Granger said before he could even offer. ‘I don’t mind sharing the bed.’ 

Draco blinked in surprise, but even he had to admit he’d rather share a bed with her and her ridiculous hair - which no doubt took up as much space as another person - than get a backache sleeping on the chaise. 

‘Thanks, Granger,’ Draco replied. ‘I wish we really did have some luggage,’ he added, feeling a little wistful as he cast a thought to his carefully curated capsule wardrobe and his monogrammed travel vanity case full of products currently sitting on the marble sideboard of his bathroom several decades in the future. ‘I mean, we can get by with charms and transfiguring, but it’s not quite the same.’ 

He turned just in time to see Hermione pulling a faded, beaded bag out of her leather work bag. She clutched it to her chest, the beginning of a smile tugging at her lips. 

‘Granger?’ Draco asked in confusion.

‘I think we’ll be a little more comfortable than you think,’ she grinned, and opened up her tiny bag. Draco watched in amazement as she put her fingers, then her hand, then her entire arm into the thing, rummaging around in a space he couldn’t see. A moment later she pulled a full-size travelling trunk out of it, placing it triumphantly on the floor before delving back into her bag. Next she pulled out an enormous washbag. 

‘Undetectable extension charm, Granger?’ Draco said in realisation. He tutted lightly. ‘That’s _illegal_.’

Hermione flushed at his words, and Draco couldn’t help but stare in amazement as the pink of her cheeks enhanced the prettiness of her face. She was actually very pretty, he realised slowly, as if through a firewhisky fog. She chewed on her lower lip nervously and Draco resisted the urge to soothe her lip under his thumb.

‘I know, I just…’ she trailed off and lifted the trunk onto the bed, unlocking it with her wand and popping it open. Draco joined her, and found it stuffed with clothes, men’s and women’s, ready for all occasions. She pulled out a pair of red and gold pyjama bottoms that would fit Draco nicely once they had been charmed a little to lengthen the leg, handing them to him before digging out a stack of clothing for him to pick from for tomorrow. He took all the bundles of clothes, watching in amazement as Hermione pulled out some pyjamas for herself.

‘Granger,’ Draco said now, keeping his voice gentle. ‘I think I need some kind of explanation.’ 

Hermione’s blush deepened and she closed the trunk and levitated it back to the floor. ‘I was on the run for months during the war,’ she said, her voice quiet. Draco shifted awkwardly. He was uncomfortably aware she had been missing for nearly a year during that last terrible stretch of the Dark Lord’s reign. ‘It was awful. I cast the extension charm and was ready to go at a moment’s notice, and it was still so hard.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper and Draco found himself reflexively reaching out to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. ‘I’ve carried it around with me ever since,’ she admitted now, and Draco tightened his grip on her shoulder. ‘I’ve added to it every year, just in case.’

‘Granger,’ Draco said, his voice hoarse with guilt. After all, he’d been implicit in Voldemort’s rise to power, and indirectly responsible for Hermione’s experiences in those months. ‘Hermione, the war ended almost a decade ago.’

She shrugged and laughed shakily. ‘I know. But I can’t - I can’t be unprepared anymore. Besides,’ she said, straightening her spine and brightening her voice. ‘Look at us now. Trapped in the past, with nothing to our names except for what I’ve packed.’

‘Hmm.’ Draco looked at her with narrowed eyes. ‘Fair point, I suppose. Why don’t you use the bathroom first, have a relaxing bath or something.’

Hermione did as she was told - for once, probably, Draco thought ruefully to himself - emerging some time later in her pyjamas, her curls untangled and loose, her skin pink and glowing. She looked more relaxed as she climbed into bed, and Draco headed to the bathroom to carry out his own ablutions. 

When he emerged in his borrowed pyjama bottoms, he saw Hermione flash him a grin when she realised he’d charmed the colour as well as the length, turning the pattern silver and green instead. 

‘If I have to wear an old pair of Potter’s pyjamas, I can at least do it in style,’ he smirked, and she actually laughed, genuinely, at his words. 

‘Just stop sauntering around and get into bed,’ she smiled, and he couldn’t resist raising an eyebrow at her. 

‘You in a hurry to get me under the sheets, Granger?’ He said. She laughed again, a sound that Draco was beginning to think he could quite easily get used to hearing. 

‘You wish, Malfoy,’ she threw back in a spirited reply, but it was without venom. He climbed under the sheets, settling back on his pillows and sighing as Hermione waved her wand and blew out the lanterns that had been lighting the room. They lay in companionable silence for a few moments, then Hermione let out an enormous sigh.

‘Something on your mind, Granger?’ Draco said lightly, and Hermione sighed again. 

‘Just worried about Crookshanks,’ she said, and Draco had a strange feeling burned in his stomach. He’d forgotten about this Crookshanks, whoever he was. Clearly he was back in their present, missing Granger at this time of night. ‘I hope he’s managed to find something to eat.’ 

Draco frowned. ‘What kind of grown man can’t manage to feed himself?’ he scoffed, to which he was met with a long silence before Hermione started giggling to herself. ‘What?’ he asked, feeling more and more confused. 

‘Malfoy,’ she said with a hint of that delightful laugh in her voice. ‘Crookshanks is my cat.’ 

Cat? ‘ _Oh_ ,’ Draco said, suddenly feeling very stupid. He rolled onto his side to find Hermione mirroring him, her eyes shining in the darkness. ‘So you’re not… you’re not seeing anyone?’ he asked hesitantly, not sure why he suddenly felt so nervous.

She shook her head, and Draco felt a strange flicker of relief. ‘There hasn’t been anyone, not since I moved to Paris,’ she admitted quietly. ‘How about you? Who’s missing you back home?’

Draco laughed without humour. ‘I don’t know that anyone is really missing me,’ he said into the gloom. He wished he could give Granger any other answer except the truth. ‘But I’m actually engaged. To Astoria Greengrass.’

‘Daphne Greengrass’s sister?’ Hermione was clearly trying to keep her voice nonchalant, but Draco could hear the tightness in it. 

He gave an awkward shrug, rolling onto his back and looking up at the blue tapestry of the bed. If he were to be honest with himself the longer he found himself in the past, the more free he felt. The truth was, he was starting to think he’d prefer to take a penniless bachelorhood and his writing to a loveless marriage and an inheritance. 

‘We’ve been dating for a few years,’ he said now, as if to explain himself. ‘And my parents adore her.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Hermione said with a grim humour to her voice. ‘Elapsed time and parental fondness. The perfect equation for a happy marriage.’ 

Draco looked at her, overcome with a sudden impulse to confide in her. Maybe it was the fact they were in the past, where Astoria and his parents didn’t exist. Maybe it was the right level of familiarity and distance with reuniting with her after all these years. She waited patiently while he wrestled with his thoughts in silence, until he shook his head and spoke.

‘I don’t think I love her, Granger.’

There it was: the truth. Was it that painful to admit? 

Granger’s eyes widened slightly but she kept quiet, giving him space to think; to speak. 

‘I don’t want to spend my life with her.’ 

Another beat of silence, then Draco groaned and ran his hands through his hair. ‘Let’s change the subject, Granger,’ he said gruffly. ‘What do you think we should do first tomorrow?’

Hermione sighed and shifted, the mattress dipping as she moved. ‘If Zelda and Scott are happy to let us stay here, I’m going to spend some time researching in their library. Did you see it on the way to our room?’ She paused long enough for Draco to hum in agreement. ‘I was originally thinking of trying to get into the French ministry, but if there’s anything I can learn here first that’s a lot easier than sneaking into a ministry building.’

She said this as if she had firsthand experience of breaking into government buildings, then Draco remembered the war and realised it was probably true. 

‘I can help,’ he said, and he felt the bed shift again as Hermione gave him an unconvinced look. He sighed and rolled back over to look at her. ‘I’m a writer, Granger. Research is a huge part of my work. Also, I’ll thank you to remember who nearly beat your scores in our N.E.W.T.s, thank you very much.’ 

Hermione smiled reluctantly at that. ‘You actually did beat me in DADA,’ she admitted. ‘Just like Harry did that one time,’ she added bitterly. 

‘There you go, then,’ Draco said. ‘And with two of us, we can cover more ground, and hopefully find our way back quicker.’ 

‘That’s settled then,’ Hermione agreed. ‘Sleep now, and in the morning we’ll start researching our way back home.’

‘Sweet dreams, Granger,’ Draco said softly. Her eyes fluttered shut and he spent far longer than he would ever admit watching her as she fell asleep.

Luckily the Zabinis were only too happy to have a pair of unexpected houseguests for a few more days. They had breakfast together, strong black coffee and delicious, buttery croissants with elf-made blackberry jam, all brought in by Dédé the house-elf, before Zelda and Scott left them for the day.

‘Make yourselves at home, darlings,’ Zelda said, leaning in to brush a kiss against Draco’s cheek as she got ready to leave. ‘Dédé will bring you tea and lunch later on, and Scott and I will be back for dinner!’ 

With that Zelda and Scott left and Hermione and Draco were left alone.

‘Library?’ he asked. 

Hermione nodded grimly. ‘Library,’ she agreed.

The Zabini library was pretty impressive for a holiday home, Draco had to admit. The stacks were neat and covered a remarkably wide range of subjects. Hermione had instantly set up a base on the large reading table in the centre of the room, sitting down now with scrolls of parchment and her eagle-feather quill already set out, three or four books open in front of her. As Draco handed her another book, a manual on using and maintaining time turners, he couldn’t help smiling to himself as he saw Hermione’s hair had somehow _grown_ since she started studying, her curls expanding with every page she turned.

‘Can you check for anything that references magical accidents next, please,’ she said now without looking up. 

Draco did as he was told, casting a reference charm and smiling in satisfaction as two books wriggled themselves loose from the shelves. He collected both of them and deposited them on Hermione’s table.

‘So, what is it you _do_ as an Unspeakable, Granger?’ Draco asked mildly as she started to write out some notes.

‘I can’t tell you, Malfoy,’ she replied absent-mindedly, and Draco laughed. 

‘Right, because then you’d have to kill me?’

‘Or marry you,’ Hermione responded idly, causing Draco to cough in surprise.

‘Marry me?!’ 

Finally Hermione looked up. ‘Well, as Unspeakables we’re allowed to tell our spouse our area of specialism. Why, would you rather be killed than marry me, Malfoy?’ 

Draco watched her suspiciously, not sure if she was joking around with him. She looked back at him seriously, then her face split into a grin.

‘I’m kidding with you, Malfoy! No need to look so worried. Now, bring me anything you can find with reference to the history of Place Cachée.’

They worked all day in the library, side by side pouring through stacks of old books. They stopped briefly for lunch, sitting out in the lush green grounds and enjoying the fresh air. Towards the end of the afternoon, Draco was sure Hermione was onto something. Infuriatingly, she wouldn’t share her thoughts with him no matter how much he pushed, but her hair slowly grew bigger and bigger and her eyes wider and wider as the hours passed by. From spending so many years in classes at Hogwarts with her, Draco knew it was a good sign.

‘Just don’t rush me, Malfoy,’ Hermione said later on, tidying away their things as the evening started to draw in. ‘I’m close, I _know_ I am, but I need to let the ideas sit and simmer for a while.’ 

Draco decided if he ever wanted the chance to return home, he’d be best off doing what Granger said. 

Luckily that evening Zelda and Scott insisted they join them for dinner, giving them both something to take their conscious minds off the problem of getting home. And sure enough, after a delicious steak and rich red wine from the Malfoy estate, they ended up back at the bar from the night before. 

Ernest Malfoy was tucked away in his usual corner, deep in conversation with a man with dishevelled, dirty-blond hair. When he spotted them enter, he raised his glass of firewhisky.

‘Draco, my boy,’ Ernest greeted him once he’d said hello to the Zabinis. ‘And Hermione! Come and meet T.S. Lovegood! A fellow wordsmith and weaver of worlds.’

Draco and Lovegood shook hands, Lovegood regarding him with wide, pale blue eyes. ‘Ernie’s been telling me all about you and your writing. I hear Parkinson’s taking a look? You take my advice, son.’ Here Lovegood’s eyes intensified, and he leaned forward to stare deep into Draco’s eyes. ‘You make every change that woman suggests. She is a miracle-worker.’ 

Draco could only nod in acquiescence. He felt Ernest press a tumbler into his hand and took a much-needed sip, the warmth of the firewhisky giving him back his voice.

‘Will do, Mister Lovegood,’ Draco said.

‘Oh, please,’ Lovegood scoffed. ‘Call me Stearns. I would tell you my first name, but the nargles might hear,’ he added in a whisper. 

Draco could only nod again, and as Lovegood turned in his seat and noticed Hermione, his eyes widening again as he leaned forward to interrogate her. Ernest shuffled closer to Draco.

‘He’s a bit intense, old Stearns,’ Ernest said with an uncharacteristic fondness. ‘But he’s a good egg. Although he does breed kneazles, you know,’ he added cryptically, as if that explained everything. ‘He’s written a poem for every one he has.’ 

Well, that explained a lot. Draco looked back over, to find Hermione deep in conversation with the writer.

‘His name is Crookshanks, you see,’ she was saying, as Zelda handed both her and Lovegood a glass of champagne each. ‘And half the time I don’t even know where he is but when he returns, he always looks like he’s been _up_ to things, you know?’

Lovegood took a sip of his champagne, watching Hermione thoughtfully. ‘Indeed. This Crookshanks - would you say he’s a _mystery_ cat?’ 

‘Oh absolutely,’ Hermione laughed in agreement.

‘A… hidden paw, some might say?’ Lovegood mused, sneaking a tiny notepad and a stub of a pencil from a pocket somewhere, and starting to make notes.

‘Oh, he’s a master criminal for sure,’ Hermione smiled, taking another sip of her own champagne. 

Draco felt a strange feeling sweep over him as he watched Hermione talking from the other side of the table. 

Her curls today were loose around her shoulders, a pair of long, sapphire earrings dangling from her lobes. Her dress - which had been a simple cream shift dress when she’d first changed - had been transfigured into a slinky, fringed silk number in deep sapphire blue. She managed to blend nicely into the 1920s fashion while still keeping a modern elegance to her. 

As if sensing Draco’s observation of her, Hermione looked up and caught his eye. For a moment he was reminded of being back at Hogwarts, when he would sneer and pull his gaze away despite desperately wanting to never look away. Now, in the safety of the past, he gave her a small smile instead. She smiled back, and Draco felt a flood of happiness flow through his veins, a hundred times stronger than the effects of firewhisky.

‘Young love,’ Ernest said quietly from his side, breaking Draco’s reverie. ‘True and real love is a wonderful thing,’ he carried on before Draco could deny his feelings. ‘It creates a respite from death. All cowardice comes from not loving, or not loving well, which is the same thing.’ 

Ernest paused to take a drink, and Draco swallowed down a sudden, guilty lump in his throat, a flashback of standing in his drawing room during the war, Hermione’s screams and cries as his aunt tortured her echoing around his cavernous mind. 

Ernest, either not noticing or not caring for Draco’s silence, carried on. ‘When a man who is brave and true looks death squarely in the face, it is because they love with sufficient passion to push death out of their minds, until it returns as it does to all men.’ 

Ernest stumbled to his feet, gripping his firewhisky in his hand as he raised it to the table. Lovegood and Hermione looked up in surprise, as did Zelda and Scott who were draped over each other on the other side of Draco. 

‘To love!’ Ernest cried out, and the table echoed back his toast.

‘To love!’ They called, and everyone took a drink except Draco, who was nursing his half-finished firewhisky in his cold hands. 

Ernest stumbled away - to the bar, presumably - and Hermione said something to Lovegood before standing up as well, joining Draco on his side of the table.

‘Hey,’ she said softly, reaching down to take one of his cold hands in hers. The warmth from her own hands slowly seeped into his own. ‘You looked melancholy. Are you okay?’

‘Granger,’ he said, mortified to hear his voice crack. ‘About everything that happened… I’m really sorry. I’m so sorry I never did anything. Not just - that day, in the manor, but for all of it. I should have come to you for help. I should have done something, not just followed blindly along like my family did.’

Hermione’s hand tightened around his, and when Draco finally found enough courage to look at her he saw her skin had paled and her eyes were sad. 

‘Thank you, Draco,’ she said, her voice quiet. ‘I - I wish I’d reached out to you, too. I could have helped, I could have offered, but I never did. I’m sorry, too.’

Draco cringed like an injured puffskein. Only Hermione, with her enormous heart and capacity for compassion, would apologise to _him_.

‘You owe me no apology, Granger. You know I wouldn’t have listened even if you did come to me.’

She regarded him carefully for just a beat too long, shrewdness in her gaze, but to his relief she nodded.

‘Let’s put it all behind us, Draco,’ she said softly, and he was momentarily stunned silent by her using his given name. Her eyes softened and she reached for his hand again. ‘After all, the war ended almost a decade ago, remember?’ She gave a small smile as she echoed his words back to him. 

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of wine and firewhisky, and talk of writing and culture and art. At one point another of Zelda and Scott’s friends joined them, an eccentric artist called Salvador Nott.

‘So, what’s your artistic process?’ Draco asked him politely, trying not to focus on how Salvador’s sapphire eyes were identical to those of his best friend Theo’s. 

Salvador looked at him now with utter, focused intensity. ‘First, I set up a still life,’ he said, never blinking as he stared at Draco. ‘Second, I cast melting charms on all of them.’ Salvador suddenly burst up from his chair, his wand raised. ‘ _LIQUESCIMUS_!’ he roared, and there was a resigned collective groan from the assembled friends as the table between them melted. Ernest muttered another spell and the table slowly reformed as it had been. 

Salvador looked back at Draco with a devious twinkle in his sapphire eyes. ‘And then,’ he said, as if revealing the biggest secret of all, ‘I _paint_.’

Several hours later Hermione, Draco, Scott and Zelda stumbled back to the manor, giggling and trying not to fall over as they landed from rather risky Apparitions. As Hermione climbed into bed, already washed and in her pyjamas, Draco raided the bathroom cabinet and to his relief found a couple of vials of Sober-Up potion. He downed one before brushing his teeth, and threw the other one to Granger when he walked back through.

‘It’ll help with the headache,’ he explained with a smile, and she unstoppered it and downed it without hesitation, wincing as the potion zipped through her system. 

‘Oh, wow,’ she said as Draco climbed into bed next to her. ‘I feel better already. I swear the alcohol in the 20s is stronger than the stuff we have back home,’ she added a little ruefully. Draco extinguished the lanterns with a wave of his hand and rolled onto his side. He found Hermione already facing him, the glint of her eyes visible in the faint moonlight that streamed through the mullioned windows.

‘Granger,’ Draco said quietly, not sure if he was asking a question or making a statement. Her lips curved into a smile and she shifted closer to him, so he could feel the warmth of her body next to him. 

‘Malfoy,’ she whispered, an answer of sorts. 

With just one shift of his body, he was able to lean towards her and capture her lips in a sweet, surprising kiss. He felt her reach for him, her hand settling on his waist, and he opened his mouth against hers, feeling the desperate need to taste her, to claim her as his own. She yielded beneath him, her grip on him tightening, and the next thing he knew Hermione had pushed him onto his back, climbing up on top of him without breaking their kiss. He made a satisfied sound against her mouth and she slowly pulled away, her hair falling on either side of his face like a waterfall.

‘If we’re in the past, I figured this doesn’t count, right?’ she whispered to him, settling her hips back and sitting on him. Draco groaned, fully aware the thin pyjamas they wore would do nothing to hide the stiffening of his cock against her. 

‘I think that’s probably quite sound logic,’ he agreed, reaching up to grasp her hips gently in his hands. ‘We don’t even technically exist in 1929.’ 

‘Well that’s settled then,’ Hermione agreed, and she leaned down to kiss him again. 

Draco allowed himself a moment of pure bliss, Hermione’s soft lips on his, her body warm in his hands, tantalising as she gently rocked her hips against him, his dick almost completely hard already. Her touch on him was soft, almost reverent. 

It had been a long time since he’d felt cherished by another human being. 

He tried to chase her mouth when she pulled it away from his, but she laughed and pushed her hands back against his shoulders. He let her push him back down, watching with a smile as she raised a suggestive eyebrow at him. 

‘Why don’t you just lie back and enjoy yourself, Malfoy,’ she whispered into the night, and Draco groaned helplessly as she shifted herself down his body, her hands trailing along his chest and stomach and hips before reaching down to stroke his cock through his pyjama bottoms. 

Draco buried his face in his palms, biting his lip to stop him from crying out as her warm hands traced a line above the waistband, before hooking beneath it and pulling them down, exposing his skin to the cool air between their bodies.

She took his dick in her hand, her grip surprisingly firm, and for a brief moment Draco’s mind went blank at the realisation that Hermione Granger was straddling him, his cock in her hand. Then she lowered her head and poked out her little pink tongue and licked the tip of him, and his mind went from blank to filled with stars in a split second. 

‘Fuck, Granger,’ he managed to bite out, before making the mistake of looking down at her. She looked up at him from beneath her long eyelashes, her brown eyes wide and innocent even as she parted her lips and took his cock in her mouth. 

From the first moment of feeling himself in the warm, wet firmness of her mouth, Draco knew he wasn’t going to last long. He had to close his eyes, to block out the sight of her gazing up at him while licking his cock, to buy himself a little extra time. Even then, as she swirled her tongue around the ridge of his head, he found himself cursing under his breath, his hands reaching for her curls with a mind of their own. As he tangled his fingers in her hair, pulling her curls taut against her scalp, Hermione groaned and took him deeper into her throat, and stars burst behind Draco’s closed eyelids.

‘Fuck,’ he muttered again, using his grip in her hair to reluctantly pull Hermione off. She pouted at him with her kiss-swollen lips and Draco couldn’t help capturing her mouth with his, licking the taste of him off her lips. 

He broke away and rolled her beneath him, reaching for her pyjama shirt and pulling it off and over her head with her help. Her breasts were perfect, just the right size to fit in the palm of his hand, her nipples dark and already hardened. He brushed his thumb over one of them and was rewarded with Hermione groaning and arching her back into him. 

Draco was suddenly overwhelmed with the need for her to be completely naked, now. With a growl he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her pyjama bottoms, pulling them down her legs along with her underwear. She helped him kick them off and away, and he leaned down to kiss her again, relishing the feel of her warm skin against his. He trailed one hand down her body, nestling it between the apex of her thighs. 

‘Draco…’ she murmured against his lips, rolling her hips so the heat of her core brushed against his fingers, leaving a sticky trail on his skin. ‘Don’t tease me.’ Her voice was bossy even when breathless, and Draco knew he was smirking helplessly. 

‘As you wish,’ he whispered, and sank two fingers into her. She gasped and arched into him again, and he curled his fingers inside her and stroked her clit with his thumb. 

‘Gods, Draco,’ she panted, and Draco thought he could get used to her calling him by his given name. 

‘Hermione,’ he whispered in response, trying out the syllables of her own name on his tongue. 

It felt good, like her name belonged to him. 

Impatient again, he pulled his fingers free from her, ignoring her whine of protest, and instead lined up the head of his dick with her entrance. 

He looked down into her brown eyes, blown and desperate below him.

‘You’re sure?’ he whispered, his whole body praying for her to say yes.

‘Yes,’ she replied, reaching for his arms with her hands. Her fingernails dug into the muscles around his shoulder, and he muttered the contraceptive charm before sinking himself deep into her, burying himself to the hilt inside her wonderful, tight warmth.

More stars burst behind his eyes, and he held himself still for a long, glorious moment. Then Hermione’s inner muscles clenched around him, and she groaned and writhed beneath him, encouraging him to move.

Draco took a deep breath. He knew he still wasn’t going to last long, not with her feeling so amazing. He reached down to where their bodies joined, finding her clit and gently pressing against it as he started to thrust into her, long, agonising strokes that had him cursing and her panting. 

‘Hermione,’ he groaned her name again, tasting the sound of her, and leaned down to kiss her once more. She gasped against his mouth, and as Draco sunk himself into her and pressed hard against her clit she cried his name as she arched and trembled around him, her head falling back against the pillow as she came.

Another two thrusts was all it took, as Hermione shook through the aftershocks of her own orgasm, for him to come with a cry of her name, his whole body on fire and trembling.

He collapsed against her, still buried deep inside her, and she wrapped her arms around him. They lay in silence, their bodies damp and their breaths ragged, until Draco pressed a gentle kiss onto Hermione’s unruly curls. She sighed happily and he shifted them so they were on their sides, nose to nose. 

Hermione reached up to stroke Draco’s hair, he dropped a kiss on the tip of her nose, and slowly they fell asleep, cradled in each other’s arms.

* * *

‘Draco?’ A soft, musical voice and a gentle rapping at the door woke Draco slowly from his sleep. He stretched sleepily, feeling warm and secure, and as he blinked his eyes open he panicked for a brief moment. His vision was nothing but a mass of dark curls. 

A second later Hermione stirred from where she lay naked, curled in his arms, and the whole of the previous night came flooding back to him.

Another rap at the door, louder this time. ‘Draco?’ Zelda’s voice called again. ‘There’s someone here to see you!’ 

Hermione’s eyes fluttered open, brown and innocent, and Draco’s breath caught in his throat. All he wanted to do in that moment was pull her in for a kiss. 

‘Draco?’ She murmured sleepily against his chest, her breath warm against his skin. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s just Zelda,’ he said soothingly, stroking down her wild curls. ‘I’ll go and see what she wants, you stay here.’ He pressed a kiss against her forehead, not missing the sweet smile on her lips as he pulled away. 

Being careful not to disturb the blankets too much as he climbed from the bed, Hermione’s eyes were already closing again as Draco scrambled around for his pyjamas, pulling them up over his hips as he went to answer the door.

Despite the copious alcohol, late night and earliness of the morning, Zelda Zabini looked as beautiful as always, her violet eyes sparkling with mischief. 

‘Sleep well?’ she asked innocently, and Draco coughed awkwardly and pulled the door closed behind him, hiding Hermione’s prone body from sight.

‘Well enough,’ he said, keeping his voice neutral. ‘You said someone was here to see me?’

Draco got dressed quickly after Zelda left, Hermione already fast asleep again. He gave her a fond smile before he pulled the door shut behind him again, hurrying to the parlour where Zelda was entertaining his guest. When he reached the door he took a deep breath before entering. 

Zelda and the guest sat in plush armchairs by the ornate fireplace, both drinking tea from delicate china cups. Between them, on the low table next to the tea set, sat a nondescript cardboard manuscript box.

‘Ah, Draco,’ Zelda smiled, waving him to the empty third armchair. ‘I don’t believe you’ve been formally introduced. Gertrude Parkinson, this is Draco Black. Draco, it’s my great pleasure to introduce you to the wonderful Gertrude Parkinson.’

The woman in the other chair got to her feet, leaning forwards to give Draco a very no-nonsense handshake. She had black hair, cut in a short, sharp bob. Her eyes were just as sharp as her haircut, and her red-painted lips curled in a familiar smile. 

‘Mister Black,’ she said, sitting back down and watching him. ‘It’s nice to meet you. Malfoy did good sending you my way. I read your manuscript.’

Draco was left on tenterhooks as Gertrude took a long, draining sip of her tea. He barely noticed as Hermione slipped through the door, sitting beside them after a welcoming smile from Zelda. Gertrude sighed happily and set her teacup down on its saucer as Draco clenched his fists impatiently. Finally she looked up, her dark eyes - so like Pansy’s - flashing with a mixture of intelligence and amusement.

‘Relax, honey,’ Gertrude smiled now as Dédé appeared with a crack to pour her more tea. ‘I loved it. You have a real talent, Black.’

Draco was stunned into silence as Gertrude waved her wand lazily, levitating the manuscript box over to him. He reached out and took it into his hands as it hovered in front of him.

‘You really liked it?’ He asked as he cradled the draft to his chest. No one had ever read it before, beyond the handful of publisher rejections he’d received, and he’d been dreading being told it was terrible. 

‘I really liked it,’ Gertrude smiled. From memory, she quoted the first line of his novel back to him: ‘“ _Out of the Past_ was the name of the store, and its products consisted of memories: what was prosaic and even vulgar to one generation had been transmuted by the mere passing of years to a status at once magical and also camp.”’ 

From Draco’s side, Hermione reached over for his hand. ‘I love it,’ she whispered. ‘I’m already hooked.’

Gertrude nodded along to Hermione’s words, and turned back to Draco. ’I made a few notes for you, but I think you’re well on your way to an excellent piece of work here. Make a few changes, polish it up a bit, and I don’t doubt you’ll be snapped up by a publisher.’ 

‘I - I don’t know how to thank you,’ Draco said now, and Gertrude gave him an impatient, Pansy-esque wave of dismissal. 

‘Just promise me you won’t waste your talent, Black,’ she said, fixing Draco with a steely look that made him squirm uncomfortably in his chair. Could she tell he was on the verge of giving up his dream? ‘We need more writers of talent in this world, to lift the darkness and inspire hope.’ 

Hermione squeezed his hand and Draco could only nod at Gertrude’s words.

‘I promise,’ he whispered, and she smiled in satisfaction and took a sip of her tea.

Gertrude left shortly after they finished their tea, giving Draco an engulfing hug as she went, and he and Hermione headed back to the library to finish up their research, breaking only for a delicious lunch with Scott and Zelda. 

Later that evening, Hermione looked up at Draco from her books. Her hair was bigger than he had ever seen it before, and her eyes glinted with a manic energy. 

‘Draco,’ she breathed, and something in her hair sparked. ‘I think I’ve worked it out.’

‘You have?’ Draco felt a wave of relief flow through him, followed closely by a twinge of regret. He didn’t examine it too closely, not sure he wanted to know the truth that was slowly developing inside him. 

‘I think there was a time-turner accident centuries ago in Place Cachée, the exact spot we fell through. The remnants of the time turner got mixed with the magical signature of the street. I suspect it hasn’t only been us who fell through the gap over the years.’

Draco ran a hand through his hair. He always knew time-turners were dangerous objects to play around with, and he was unsettled to be proved right. He was glad Hermione had been the one to fall through with him, in more ways than one. 

‘And you know how to get us back?’ he asked hopefully. This was Hermione, after all. Of course she’d have an answer.

Her brown eyes sparkled in response. 

‘I do,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to be back at Place Cachée for midnight. I’ll cast the spell then.’ 

Draco nodded slowly, looking out of the arching library window where the sun was slowly setting. ‘Let’s get packed up and say our goodbyes to the Zabinis, then.’

‘I think we’ll be leaving for home this evening,’ Draco said to Scott and Zelda as they all sat down for dinner an hour later. 

Their hosts didn’t look surprised. 

‘We will miss you both,’ Zelda said, her voice sad. 

‘But we knew you wouldn’t be with us long,’ Scott added. ‘You both have a… unique energy to you. Did you use a time-turner?’ he asked matter-of-factly. Hermione flashed Draco a surprised look. 

‘Stumbled through the remnants of a time-turner accident, we think,’ Draco admitted. 

‘And you know how to get home?’ Zelda asked, her voice coloured with concern. 

Hermione nodded. ‘Thanks to your wonderful library, yes.’

The Zabinis looked happy with the answer, and Scott raised his glass of wine to them.

‘To far-flung guests and unexpected encounters,’ he said with a smile, and all four of them drank to the toast. 

Their trunk packed, shrunk, and hidden back in Hermione’s beaded bag, Draco turned to Hermione as midnight approached. He held out his hand, and she smiled and took it without hesitation. Concentrating and turning on the spot, Draco Apparated them back to Place Cachée. 

The streets were mainly empty, most people hidden away in the bustling bars. The night was clear and beautiful, and as they reached the spot they’d stumbled into the past through, Draco turned his face to the crescent moon above them. 

He was aware of Hermione watching him, probably thinking he was a sentimental idiot, but for once Draco didn’t care what anyone else thought of him. When he turned to look at her, she was smiling softly. He felt his heart skip a beat at the way her smile lit up her face.

‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ she said, her voice a whisper in the silence of the night. ‘Paris, I mean. At midnight.’ She looked up to the sky herself, tracing the constellations with her eyes. ‘Makes me feel small, but in a good way. Like we’re all part of something bigger, something important.’

‘Like everything happens for a reason,’ Draco added. Never before had he met anyone in his life who’d understood his love for midnight before. 

‘Like everything will be alright,’ she finished quietly, coming to a stop on the cobblestones and turning her gaze to him instead. 

A feeling of contentment passed between them, before their lips met, a softer echo from the night before, a goodbye to the Paris they came together in. When Hermione broke away, she drew her wand and cast a gentle spell at the spot where they had first arrived into 1929. 

The air before them glistened like a golden cobweb, but Draco didn’t feel relieved or eager to step through it and return to modern-day Paris. Instead, another idea raced through his mind, and he turned to Hermione.

‘Granger,’ Draco said, holding her jaw in his hands and looking at her in excitement. She looked back at him with bemused brown eyes. ‘Let’s stay here.’ 

It was a brilliant idea, Draco was sure of it. They could stay here, in the past, the golden age of writing and art and culture, making a life for themselves. 

Just the two of them.

He focused back on Hermione, his excitement dying a little at the pitying look she gave him.

‘Malfoy,’ she said, her voice soft. ‘Draco, we can’t stay here. We don’t belong here.’

‘But we could,’ he insisted, stubbornly. ‘We could belong here. Away from prying eyes, away from the legacy of the war. No one would look twice at us here, Granger. And if-’ he paused, suddenly unsure, but her gaze was kind and he pushed on regardless. ‘ _If_ you wanted to - to be with me, we could do it here…’

He trailed off, aware that Hermione’s gaze had turned fierce and fiery. He dropped his hands from her face and moved back an inch, aware that he’d seen that look in her eyes once before and that it had been followed very quickly by a broken nose for him.

‘Draco Malfoy,’ she hissed, advancing towards him and crowding him in, her hands on her hips as she looked up at him in fury. ‘Are you suggesting I wouldn’t want to be seen with you in our time because of what happened in the war?’

Draco gulped, not sure he hadn’t walked into a trap of sorts.

‘Well - yes,’ he said, nervously. 

‘Unbelievable,’ she muttered, dropping her hands and reaching for his instead. ‘Draco, if you want to give this a go, I mean, if you’re sure about ending things with Astoria, I won’t hide you away like a dirty little secret. The war is over, and you were a child acting under duress. You were cleared of all charges, Draco. You’ve grown into a good man. It’s time to stop hiding yourself away.’

Draco just looked at her, his mind seeming to spin slower than usual while her words sunk in.

‘You mean that, don’t you?’ He asked seriously, and she squeezed his hands in hers. 

‘Of course I mean it, Draco,’ she said, her brown eyes earnest. ‘If you want to do this, I’m going to show you off to the whole of the wizarding world.’

Draco looked up to the stars above them. He could stay, live out his life from here on out, spending his time writing and being unknown, live in peace and loneliness for the rest of his life.

Or…

 _Or_. 

He could return to his present, and face up to his life. Make the right decisions - the hard decisions, but the ones that would bring him happiness. Break off his engagement, and his inheritance. Choose the life he wanted, be a writer, make things up to the wizarding world again. 

And, if he was brave enough to do those things, and he did them with grace, then if he were really lucky he’d have the most intelligent, talented, good-hearted and sexy witch on his arm for the rest of his life. 

He gave Hermione a smile, and leaned down to kiss her gently on the lips. When he broke away, she looked up at him expectantly. He brushed back a loose curl, tucking it back behind her ear. 

‘Come on, Granger,’ he smiled. ‘Let’s go home.’


End file.
